Page 112 of Pretty When He Bleeds

But I saw it. I know the way he clenches his jaw when he’s hurting.

My mom places a hand on my arm, a calming touch. “He’s okay,” she assures me. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to sit back down, but my knee bounces relentlessly.

Roman plays through the rest of the period like he’s pissed—harder, faster, throwing his weight around like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does.

To them.

To himself.

And I swear to fucking God, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

Midway through the second period, some dumbass from the other team makes the mistake of getting too close to Killian, slamming him into the boards a little too hard.

Big fucking mistake.

Roman’s on him in seconds, shoving him back so hard the guy barely has time to react before Thorn is there too, laughing as he squares up like he’s been waiting all game for an excuse.

The refs try to break it up, but not before Roman gets in a solid shove, his mouth moving way too much for him not to be talking shit. I don’t know what he says, but whatever it is, it works—the guy goes red in the face and tries to come at him again before getting dragged away.

Roman just grins, skating backward toward his bench, his eyes flicking up to the stands like he knows I’m watching. I flip him off and his grin widens.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “He really does get off on this shit.”

My mom laughs. “You should’ve seen him when he was in high school. He’s always been like this.”

I tilt my head, glancing at her. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, still smiling as she watches him. “Always too competitive for his own good. But he’s a good kid. He plays hard, but he plays smart.”

I can’t argue with that.

The rest of the game is fast, brutal, and exactly what I expected from Roman’s team. Every time I think someone else might take the spotlight, there he is again—fucking everywhere, setting up plays, talking shit, knocking guys around just for fun.

Third period and the game is tied 3-3.

Tension is thick enough to choke on, and I don’t realize I’m gripping the edge of my seat until my mom pats my hand. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Right.

Then Roman’s got the puck, and there’s nothing in his way. It happens fast. Too fucking fast. He moves like a ghost, slipping between defenders like they aren’t even there, his stick handling fucking filthy, his edges cutting deep into the ice as he races toward the net.

He lifts his stick—

Shoots—

The red light flashes, and the crowd loses its mind.

I don’t even think, I just grab my mom’s arm, shaking her as I yell, “HOLY FUCK DID YOU SEE THAT?”

She’s laughing, her eyes bright. “Oh, that was beautiful! What a game!”

I turn back to the ice, my heart pounding out of my fucking chest as I watch Roman skate toward the bench, his teammates swarming him, slamming into him, loving him.

Ifucking love him. God, I love him. It’s scary as all hell to admit it, but I do.

The clock runs down, and when the buzzer finally sounds, declaring their win, I feel something I’ve never fucking felt before. Pride. I’m so fucking proud of him, and when he looks up toward the stands again, his eyes find mine immediately.

He winks, and fuck, I’m in deep.

---